I’m crying as I write this. My eyes are bloodshot. Heavy bags hang below them. Despite what the court system or Department of Corrections may say, I have never been a hardened criminal. Hardened means your heart no longer feels. But my heart feels everything.

There is always some weight bearing down on me in prison. I can only get relief by letting everything out so I can still function. The best way I have found is through a good cry. While some people here think my tears are a sign of bipolar disorder or anxiety, my true friends know I’m purging.

I’m not ashamed of being a crier. I don’t care about “prison code,” or having a tough persona. Staying human is more important to me, and humans shed tears. Anyone who has had a full cry knows that when no tears are left, a euphoric relaxation sets in.  

I cry for all kinds of reasons. I cry for the mistakes I’ve made, and the ones that have landed me in prison. I cry when I try with all my might to forgive myself for my crime, but can’t. I cry when someone struggles with a loss because I’ve lost so many people of my own. I cry when I see love between two people because I have yet to fully experience that. I even cry when I think about going home —  I am afraid of a world I no longer know after 25 years behind prison walls.

No matter the reason, crying always brings relief. And though most people may not talk about it openly inside, we support each other when we need to get the emotions out.

I remember when my grandmother passed away. I was on my way to the gym when I ran across my friend Haleem, who saw the distress on my face, despite my efforts to conceal it. When tears started to fill my eyes, he knew I must have lost someone. He hugged me while I released my grief.

I was in solitary when my father passed away. I didn’t get to talk to him when he was on his deathbed. I never got to say goodbye. I was shocked when my rough-and-tough bunkie, BX, hugged me tightly when I walked into our cell. The sergeant had told him what happened, and asked him to keep an eye on me. I didn’t know it at the time, but the same thing had happened to BX. We cried together, his arms wrapped around me. 

That’s what us “hardened criminals” do.

I cried the hardest when my mother died. One of my closest friends, Otto, had lost his mother just weeks before. We stood on the catwalk and blubbered in each other’s arms. I will always appreciate him for sharing that moment of grief. If we hadn’t gotten it out, it could have consumed us in this place with so much time to do nothing but dwell on the pain.

I interviewed a few people on my unit here in South Woods State Prison in New Jersey about shedding therapeutic tears. Unsurprisingly, most people were reluctant to be so vulnerable openly. But Austin Meli told me the only time he had a real good cry was during his son’s birthday. 

“I haven’t seen him since my incarceration, and I had this overwhelming feeling of needing to cry,” he said. And cry he did. “I felt relieved, like a weight was lifted off my shoulders and for that moment everything felt OK.”